


Until the Day Break

by Melanie_Athene



Series: To Err Is Human [18]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, Humor, M/M, Post Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cold and weary hunters stand guard while a winter storm rages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until the Day Break

In the end, Dean had three beers. Sam and Bobby kept him company at the cluttered kitchen table, Bobby complaining all the while of the cold draft making its way through improperly sealed cracks in the broken windows.

Bobby's ancient furnace had given up the ghost hours ago. “No sense tryin' to heat the great outdoors,” he snarled, before throwing the breaker switch and putting the furnace's laboured moans to rest. “We'll just have to make do with the fireplace and hope the water pipes don't freeze.”

A sudden howl of wind rattled the building, as if mocking Bobby's words as a vain hope at best.

“Couldn't have picked a worse night to smash up my house,” the old hunter grumbled, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering in spite of the heavy jacket he was wearing. “And those damned salt lines don't stand a chance. Wind blows 'em away as fast as they're laid down.”

“Panic room, old man,” Dean said. “There's a space heater in there and a bunk already made up, fit for God himself, if I remember right. Go ahead and get your beauty rest. I'll take first watch. Sam, you may as well try and catch a few Zs too.”

“Thanks, Dean, 'ppreciate that. Wake me when it's my turn.” Bobby yawned and shuffled off, patting Sam on the arm as he passed by. “Grab a sleeping bag and join me, son. You'll freeze your balls off up here.”

“But I'm not sleepy yet.”

“What are you, five years old?” Dean said, scowling as a petulant look appeared on Sam's face. “Fine!” Dean threw up his hands. “We'll share first watch. I'll take upstairs.”

“Think I'll take a turn around the yard,” Sam said buttoning up his coat and pulling a woolly hat down over his ears. After adding gloves and a moth-eaten scarf to the ensemble, he shouldered his shotgun and slipped out through the back porch, a thick swirl of snow gusting in before he could get the door closed behind him.

Dean drained the last of his beer and eyed the whiskey bottle Bobby had conveniently left sitting on the counter. His glance slid to Castiel's trench coat, back to the bottle, back to the coat...

“Fuck it,” he sighed. Rising to his feet, he grabbed the trench coat off its hook before stomping his way up the stairs.

 

~*~

 

Thanks to the more extensive damage it had suffered, it was colder upstairs than it was downstairs. Dean paced restlessly from room to room, slapping his arms across his chest every now and then to keep his circulation going. Wind whistled down the hallway and little drifts of snow piled up in corners. From below, he could hear the echoing, clomping footsteps of his brother, the moose, lumbering around. Aside from that, the house was quiet, dead quiet. If he strained his ears, he could probably hear Bobby's snores through the panic room's thick walls. He grinned, amused by the thought, and shivered. Damn, it was cold! Surely, it must be near morning?

A quick glance at his watch revealed the hour to be just short of midnight.

Dean sighed, and made a final round before retreating to his bedroom. Despite it being ground zero, it still felt like a good base of operations. Familiar. The only place, aside from his beloved Impala, that came close to being home. Sure, it was Bobby's house, but this was Dean's room. He'd lost track of all the hours he'd spent here as a child, all the times he'd longed to be here rather than out on the road. This room meant marbles and Dinky Toys, trading cards and comic books. A well-used baseball glove hung on the wall, next to the shelf Bobby had helped him build: a place to store all the treasures little boys find, things that served no purpose and therefore had no place in John Winchester's world. Dean squirrelled those items away and prayed his father wouldn't find them, that they could safely be transported here.

Many treasures had been lost or taken from him along the way, but those that made it to this room remained here until Dean himself outgrew them and threw them out. There wasn't much left of his childhood, but a few things remained. Constants in a sea of change. A tattered picture of Mary, lovingly inserted in a crooked popsicle stick frame Sam had made him when he was seven. A seashell he'd picked up the one and only time their father had taken them to a beach. It was the first time he'd ever seen the sea. The water was grey and restless, the clouds threatening rain. They'd only stayed an hour or so but, if he closed his eyes, he could still smell the salt air and feel the hair rise on the back of his neck when the first crack of thunder sent them scampering for the car. He could still hear Sammy's wails of disappointment at being forced to abandon his half-built sand castle.

That long ago beach in Maine was a far cry from the turquoise sea and sun-kissed sands of Tahiti; the tiny periwinkle now overshadowed by a spider conch's curved fingers and pearlescent interior. But the plain, diminutive shell and the memories associated with it were every bit as important in their own way. Important enough to warrant a permanent place on his shelf, side by side with the treasures he and Castiel had collected together on their honeymoon. Past and present merged into one, making him – for good or bad – the man he was. Shaping the man that he would be...

Green eyes fell to the neatly folded trench coat currently resting on the far end of the shelf, dwarfing the other items littered there. 

_Cas..._

_The one treasure I could never bear to lose... A treasure I don't deserve... A treasure that treasures me above all others..._

Dean picked up the coat and carefully shook out the folds, a distinctive whiff of ozone tickling his nose as he slipped his arms into the sleeves, the too-large garment easily accommodating the extra bulk of his thick winter jacket.

Of all the things he had thought that he might feel tonight, after the day from hell that he had just gone through, contentment was most assuredly not on the list. Yet Dean had no other word to define the unexpected emotion he suddenly felt building within him. Standing in the wreckage of his room, trembling from the cold, he had been missing his angel as fiercely as if he were missing a limb. But now, wrapped in Castiel's coat, with a slew of bittersweet memories to keep him company, he felt the strangest feeling of contentment growing within his heart. 

_Cas._

_Home._

_When did they become one and the same?_

Leaving the overhead light on, Dean crawled into bed and leaned back against the headboard. Blankets pulled up to his chin, a loaded shotgun and Ruby's knife close at hand under the covers, he sat and waited and watched.

 

~*~

 

Castiel had every intention of going straight back to Dean after his visit with Father Desmond. He even had a speech of sorts prepared: half apology, half entreaty. But the words fled from his mind as he neared his destination and sensed the wards were down, the building and its inhabitants unprotected. Dark shadows prowled the periphery of Bobby's house, sniffing at the air, trying to gauge if it was truly safe to cross the threshold.

A low growl rumbled in Castiel's throat as he drew his blade and let his wrath propel him.

The shadows fled as he materialized, the angry murmur of their voices taunting the angel.

Castiel flexed his bristling wings and followed.

The chase was long and futile. However fast he travelled, the shadows were faster; flittering almost out of range, but never so faint that he could not track their progress.

Until now...

Castiel paused upon a lonely mountain top high in the Canadian Rockies and cast tendrils of his Grace far and wide, hoping something would trigger a response. Whispering snowflakes and a cold silence were his only reply. 

The disturbing thought that he had been cleverly played crept into his mind. 'Led on a wild goose chase' was the colloquial human phrase, if he was not mistaken. But for what purpose?

“Dean...” the angel murmured, and vanished.

  


~*~

 

It was a little after 3:00 am when a shiver not related to the cold danced it's way up Dean's spine, jolting him awake him from the light doze he had fallen into and making him sit up straight: instantly alert, suspicious, ready to confront an intruder, whoever or whatever that intruder might prove to be.

Dean's glance shifted left and right, up and down. The room was empty. His eyes insisted this was true, but every instinct screamed the fact to be a lie. Someone... something... was here.

 _Not a threat._ The thought came to him even as his fingers inched their way towards a weapon. He closed his hand around the hilt of Ruby's knife anyway, taking comfort in the contact.

 

~*~

 

The outline of Bobby's house was barely visible through the thick eddies of snow blustering their way across the salvage yard. Castiel stood in the thick of the storm, the ice crystals freezing on his eyelashes and the snow blanketing the dark fabric of his suit unheeded, as he assessed the situation. Not a remnant of the demons' foul essence lingered. He could feel the warm glow of the three human souls safely inside: Bobby in the panic room, Sam in the kitchen, Dean upstairs. Bobby's soul was the soft, pastel swirl of deep, dreamless slumber. Sam's a combination of high alert and increasing exhaustion. Dean... Dean was a turmoil of emotion. A hint of anger, a touch of sorrow. A trace of longing and the bright, unfaltering glow of a firm resolve.

What that resolve might be, the angel could not say. Dean Winchester's temper was mercurial at the best of times. Given the day's events, it might be prudent to further observe his human before making his presence known.

 

~*~

 

The longer he sat staring at 'nothing', the greater Dean's assurance grew.

Cas.

It had to be Cas.

“I know you're there,” Dean murmured, eyes unerringly tracking the invisible angel as he silently paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. “Don't make me break out the holy oil.”

Castiel froze in mid step.

“I understand if you're not ready to talk about what happened, but I want you to know that I'm not angry with you. I mean, I was. I was hurt and angry. Mostly hurt – God, I'm turning into such a little girl, blubbering on and on about my feelings.” Dean shook his head disparagingly. “Anyway, I've given it a lot of thought, and I think... I think I know what's happening here. You're scared. I can understand that. I'm scared too. I mean, it's not like we Winchesters are lucky in love. We attract trouble the way nectar tempts a bee. Look what happens to the people we love! Mom... Jess... I've always felt that if I ever allowed myself to fall in love, really, deeply, truly in love, then something would go wrong. Deadly wrong. It's always been easier to drift through life, never allowing anyone to get too close. Easier... and safer for all concerned. And that worked for me. I was doing fine...

“And then I met you. A nerdy angel in a rumpled trench coat. _My_ angel.

“I fought it, Cas. I fought you every step of the way. Couldn't give an inch, 'cause every time I did, I risked drawing you deeper into the damned Winchester cycle of doom. But you loved me anyway, you stupid bastard. And I was just as stupid. I loved you too... I love you...

“And you know what? It's worth the risk. It's worth the pain. Because the alternative – living without knowing what real love is – is unthinkable. I can't imagine how I ever held out so long. I must have known I was waiting for you.” 

“Dean...”

“Hello, Cas,” Dean intoned, imitating Castiel's sandpapery-rough voice and grinning his trademark cocky grin, though tears pooled in his eyes, threatening to spill if he so much as blinked. A suddenly sharp gaze focused on the red mess that was the angel's dress shirt.

“Is any of that blood yours?” he asked, slipping from his bed and striding across the room, not stopping until he stood toe to toe with his angel.

“No.”

“Good.” Dean began to unbutton the shirt, pressing a flurry of light kisses to Castiel's throat and jaw as he did so.

“Dean... this is scarcely the time for intimacy. There were demons outside. I gave chase, but they eluded me. They could come back. I should stand guard.”

“Sam is keeping watch.”

“No offence to your brother, but he is not an angel. His senses are not as keen as mine. I need to keep you safe, prove that I – ”

“You have nothing to prove to me,” Dean said, slowly running his hands up the smooth skin of Castiel's sides, spreading his palms wider as he stroked back down and anchored himself on the sharp jut of the angel's hipbones. “But I have something to prove to you. Something I need you to know. I trust you,” he whispered. “I trust you with all my heart, all my soul.” 

“Maybe you shouldn't,” Castiel whispered back. “I've proven myself to be untrustworthy time and time again. I make terrible decisions. I prevaricate. I run away.”

“But you always come back,” Dean purred, a thumb rubbing tiny, comforting circles on the angel's flesh. “You make mistakes... and you try to fix them. You love me. What more can I ask of you than that?”

“It isn't enough.”

“No, Cas. You're wrong. It's everything. It's faith.”

“Faith...” A smile quirked the corner of the angel's mouth. Dean leaned in to kiss the quirk into a full-fledged smile.

“I know,” he said, as he reluctantly drew away. “That's a strange word coming from me. I never believed in much of anything, you know. Not even in myself. But I believe in you.”

“Dean...”

“I believe in us.”

Castiel surged forward and wrapped his arms around the hunter, drawing their bodies as close together as was physically possible. Dean shivered as a blob of melting snow slid down his neck.

“You're cold,” Castiel murmured, feeling the tremors shaking Dean's body.

“Half frozen,” Dean said. “Heat's out.” He wrapped a trench coat clad arm around his angel's neck and peered at him through coyly lowered lids. “Good thing I have my love to keep me warm.”

Castiel snorted. Setting the human free, he stepped back and rubbed his hands together. A warm ball of light grew to fill his palms, slowly spilling out from between his fingers to touch upon every corner of the room. The light faded, but a glorious warmth remained.

“Better?” Castiel said smugly.

“Much.” Dean sighed contentedly.

“Then, may I assume you have no further need for my coat or your jacket?”

“You certainly may.” Dean's grin was positively wicked. “Too many layers of clothing between us, huh?”

Castiel nodded distractedly, and glided his fingertips up a tan sleeve. How very odd it was to see Dean wearing his trench coat. And, at the same time, how immensely satisfying. _Is this how Dean feels when he sees me wearing one of his T-shirts?_ he wondered.

“Have I ever told you about my broomstick fantasy?” Dean abruptly inquired, interrupting Castiel's musings.

The angel blinked, trying to decipher the apparent non sequitur. “You mean your explanation of the witch's threat?”

“Yeah... “ Dean said, shimmying out of his clothes at record breaking speed. “She may have been a total bitch, but she had a hot imagination. So how about you lose the suit and I give you a practical demonstration of what she wanted to do.”

“You wish to... ride me? Dean, are you sure that's wise? I've already lost control once. What if it happens again?”

“That's a risk I'm more than willing to take.”

“But, Dean, we have to talk. I have to tell you – ”

“Show, don't tell, Cas,” Dean growled, his left hand reaching out to kill the lights, his right pushing determinedly against the angel's chest.

Castiel's clothing hit the floor with a sodden thump as he mojoed them to the bed.

 

~*~

 

Sam had just finished pouring himself a cup of coffee when he heard a violent scraping of furniture and a swiftly muffled exclamation sound from overhead. The words were indistinct, but he would recognize that voice anywhere: Dean.

The cup smashed to the floor in his haste to reach the stairs.

Shotgun at the ready, Sam burst into the bedroom in a panic, the echoes of Dean's second, louder cry still ringing in his ears. His free hand slammed out and hit the light switch. But before he had time to register what, exactly, it was he was seeing – his naked brother lying on top of an equally naked angel, arms tightly wound around each other and their lips now locked together – Dean was suddenly alone in the bed. He yelped as he dropped those few inches that had been filled by Castiel, bounced on the mattress and rolled to the floor in a tangle of blankets. Rich cursing filled the room, promising grievous bodily harm for the untimely interruption. But that was the least of Sam's worries. Castiel stood between Sam and the bed, sword in hand, blue eyes ablaze and a fierce scowl creasing his forehead.

Exactly where the blade had been concealed, and whether the lovers might still have been connected under the rumpled sheets (which had, thankfully, dipped no lower down than around their waists), were questions Sam would consider another time. A time when he wasn't in imminent danger of being skewered by an angel in full 'protect Dean' mode.

“Whoa, Cas!” he breathed, his gun clattering to the floor and both hands uplifted in a gesture of surrender. “It's just me.”

“Sam? What the fuck?” Dean said, peering grumpily over the edge of the bed. “Don't you ever knock?”

“I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't know Cas was back. I heard you holler, and I – I – ”

Castiel's sword vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, but he made no move to step aside. His fists were knotted, his breath gusting out through his nose in angry little puffs.

Dean wound a sheet around his waist and carefully inserted himself between the angel and his brother. “Well, he's back, as you can see,” he said. “And he's still a little... uh... riled up. So, thank you for your concern, but I think you'd better leave, Sam.”

“No,” Sam stated quietly, resolutely. “Not until I know that you're okay. Cas... remember the promise I made you? Are you... you? Is Dean safe?”

It was the right thing to say. Instantly, Castiel's shoulders lost their aggressive, rigid pose.

“Yes,” he said. “My apologies, Sam. It has been... a difficult day.”

“All right, then.” Sam nodded at the angel and threw a smirk his brother's way. “As you were.”

“How were we?” Dean snapped. “You got an eyeful, maybe you can remind us.”

“That's all right, Dean, I'm sure I can remember our positions. You were – ”

“Good night!” Sam squeaked and fled, firmly closing the door behind him. 

He was halfway down the stairs before he realized he'd left his shotgun where he'd dropped it. _No way in hell I'm going back for it,_ he thought, giving a vehement shudder at the very notion. 

And that was a mistake which would cost him dearly.


End file.
